


Coming out (take your time)

by Askell



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics), DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Adolescence, Anxiety, Asexual Biromantic Jason Todd, Berber culture, Coming Out, Damian Wayne-centric, Family Drama, Family Feels, Gay Damian Wayne, Headcanon, Jason is a good brother, M/M, Moroccan culture, Other, Religion, Sass, Sexuality Crisis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-14 01:11:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13582839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askell/pseuds/Askell
Summary: Damian doesn't like women the same way he likes men. He knows that. He also knows he has a duty to fill, a legacy to create. But the heart wants what it wants, and being a teenager was never meant to make sense anyway.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo this is a bit personal. I'm writing through Damian's eyes, but talking mostly of my own experience. Or the experience I wish I had. Anyway, there will be no ship in there even though if you squint very very well you can see some hints here and there but it will never evolve in a relationship, so don't worry. 
> 
> The kid is 13, I'm only talking about how much it can suck to discover you're a gay teen in a world which is not yet ready to accept you.
> 
> I'm also talking a bit about Damian's Oriental origins, basing them on Moroccan and Berber cultures, because they're the ones I'm most familiar with. Though, it's been more than 10 years now so I didn't go too much in details. I've read confusing stuff that the authors said about his origins (sometimes it's just 'Arab' as if it was only one culture, sometimes 'Persian' but without details), so I decided to go with what felt natural for me. I tried to stay as in-character as possible.
> 
> If you have any questions and/or constructive criticism, feel free to comment!
> 
> Shootout to [Foxy](http://sociallyawkardfoxwriter.tumblr.com) who helped me troubleshoot my plot~

Gotham was, as always, gray and smelly. 

One foot propped up on a gargoyle’s back, Damian watched its jagged horizon of mixed architectures with disinterest. Unlike his father or older brothers, he didn’t waste his time on diatribes under the rain, calling the city a ‘her’ and sounding inappropriately aroused at the metaphor. If he had to hear one more person declare their undying lust for a bunch of polluted, crumbling, crime-infested blocks, being murdered would be the least of their problems. Even their very own black sheep, local teen resurrected Jason Todd, couldn’t keep from brooding dramatically on top of a building whilst quoting classical authors every other day. 

Damian’s brooding sessions were, naturally, much less unnecessarily theatrical. Unlike some of the buffoons he had the displeasure to be legally related to, Damian knew he had a mission. However, in the dead cold of December, when rooves and streets alike slipped like skating rinks, even criminals tended to slow down their activities. Feeling his nose dripping in spite of his constant sniffing, the teenager regretted briefly not having planned such an unfortunate body reaction. 

His winter suit was visually nearly identical to his regular suit, but lined with wool and high-grade fleece. The integrated heating system unfortunately consumed batteries faster than any of his other equipments, and was to be used only when he risked hypothermia. Not for the first time since September, Damian cursed his undercut. Exposed ears, even with the protection of his hood, gave him awful headaches.

Cutting hair was, however, an important ritual in his new home. Not trusting anyone except Dick and Bruce near his skin with a blade, he had been forced to stay still while his older brother hummed along with the buzz of his hair trimmer. Grayson’s hands were always warm, it seemed. They didn’t do casual touches, but every absolutely necessary contact seemed to confirm the man never got cold. Which was not Damian’s case, who felt his own fingers grow uncomfortably stiff in spite of the small manual heat pads he had cracked five minutes prior. 

Aside from Grayson, only Alfred was allowed to cut anyone’s hair. In a rare time of brotherly truce, Drake had shown him pictures of the only time their father had tried to cut Dick’s hair. Being able to work on machines with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker did not grant him the ability to spare the young boy’s head from being turned into a Medieval bowl cut. At that moment, Damian had almost forgotten his personal vendetta against the very existence of Timothy Drake. 

Oracle’s deep voice in his ear informed him of his new target. Finally on the move, he hoped for a good fight. No street brawler was a match for him, but stalling may restore some of his body heat. There was no one patrolling with him that night, all of the older bats working on some important undercover case. He knew that Black Bat must have been observing him at some point, but his instincts were not yet sharp enough to distinguish her presence every time. Which, he had to admit, was most impressive. 

On the downside, it gave him too much time to think. 

As expected, the crack dealers did not last more than five minutes, stalling and playing around included. One of them had surprisingly blue eyes, of the likes he’d only seen in his caped relatives. God forbid Bruce ever took a look at him, their little clan already counted too many fools. Kicking the guy in the ribs with more strength than necessary, Damian ignored the fact that he also had an impressive jawline, and soft-looking hair. These kind of thoughts were not only irrelevant, but also ridiculous.

When the police finally got there, he was long gone. The youngest Wayne forced himself to think about his pets’ feeding routines, to keep his mind on a leash. The previous summer had brought changes on his person. Nothing height-related, he hated to observe every day, but annoying hormones he didn’t have the patience to suffer. Maintaining his voice deeper than it really was became a real challenge when it unexpectedly dropped on its own volition. There was no word he knew strong enough to describe the sheer ire of having to adopt a _skin routine_ as his idiotic siblings called it. Or as having to actually shave his legs to fit in his patrol pants, but -desperately- not his face. 

Damian was however ready to suffer a thousand hells of teenagehood awkwardness if it could spare him from the new center of interest he found out he couldn’t fight from his mind. His training and natural abilities made him an excellent observer, akin to the fictional Sherlock Holmes Drake had the most ridiculous admiration for. On the other hand, noticing the aesthetic qualities of other people’s body parts had few relevance in his line of work. Noticing them for ten minutes straight before being called out on it and realizing he had spaced out was the most infuriating of those changes. 

As well as the most dangerous. 

He was the descendant of Ras al Ghul. The masterpiece of Talia al Ghul. The heir of Bruce Wayne. The legacy of Batman. For now, no woman he knew was a suitable match to bring his own heirs to the world, but one day there would be. He would have to give her a form of affection, or at least respect, necessary for the establishment of his own dynasty. His mother had trained him to be able to make the most rational choice in that field, not to make any mistake in passing down his exceptional blood. Love had nothing to do with it, would only be a weakness in this enterprise. He knew all of that. 

His chest felt tight as he flew over the eerily silent town. Snow had started to fall, making his movements increasingly risky. If the weather persisted, he would have to walk back to the manor. Appearing at his side as if she had always been there, Cassandra silently accompanied him. No words were exchanged, only a small hand gesture. None of the other siblings knew about it, and for good reasons. It meant ‘good team’ or ‘good night’, ‘brother/sister’ as well as a simple ‘hello’. It was their symbol.

Cassandra would be suitable. She was worthy of his respect, dare he say of his friendship. Her quiet but comforting shadow would never be a weakness, and their offspring would be most qualitative. Only the mere idea of having this kind of relationship with her repulsed him, made him nauseous as it crossed his mind. She was his sister. Would never be anything less, but also never anything more. 

“Illness,” she signed, her face impossible to read. Relying on context alone, he guessed it was a question.

“All clear,” he replied with his stiff, cold fingers, making sure his expression conveyed the right idea. 

After a few more scuffles and the near sprain of his ankle on an frozen puddle, they agreed to come back home. The heat wave hitting him in the face as they finally walked out of the batcave was most welcome. The cave itself was maintained cold and dry in order to fool any kind of detectors. Appreciated in summer, much less in winter. 

Once in their civilian clothes, they met again in the kitchen. Outside, heavy snowflakes ruthlessly batted against the windows. Damian ignored her presence, as well as his cat incessantly rubbing his head against his legs, demanding affection. Clipping fresh mint leaves out of their stem, he neatly placed them on the counter beside him. He was aware of Alfred’s presence behind him, and silently thanked him when the old butler only placed a silver Moroccan kettle next to his elbow. 

Cassandra ignored him as well, typing something on her phone. Voiding his head of their presences, Damian focused on remembering the exact process he was trying to reproduce. He hadn’t spent that much time with the Berbers, and was only six when he snuck out to spy on them, convinced they were trying to poison him. He remembered agile hands, covered in beautiful henna arabesques and dark blue tattoos, lifting the kettle high to pour in the colorful glasses. The smell itself transported him back on the shifting sands of the Sahara desert, its ruthlessly iced nights and scorching days only made tolerable thanks to the small glasses of tea.

He’d trained with his mother, to resist the harsh conditions, to fight on uneven ground while being flayed alive by both the sun and the wind, to recognize which plants and animals could be useful to him. When he finally worked up the courage to ask why he hadn’t trained with the caravaneers at all, she’d evaded his question. In retrospective, Damian guessed they must have been distant cousins. He would probably never know.

Infusing a small amount of gunpowder tea leaves, he then carefully removed the water completely. Wahiba had explained him why it was necessary, but he couldn’t remember. He then poured more hot water on them, waiting a few seconds before starting to drown the mint leaves. They weren’t the right species, but he hoped that would still be okay. The old woman’s voice echoed in his mind, insisting on not letting the leaves float at the surface: ‘you’ll only get burned tea that way’. 

In spite of himself, he found his lips stretching in a little smile. At six years old, he didn’t speak the dialect enough to understand everything, but certainly got his ears flicked at every mistake. Next came five generous spoons of sugar. And another one, just to be sure. Worrying his lower lip, he hoped that was the right quantity. 

Unexpectedly, it was Talia’s voice in his mind which instructed him to pour while rising the kettle, pour back in it, pour in the glass again, until everything was satisfactory. Damian definitely remembered that he wasn’t supposed to mix the ingredients in any other way. According to the deliciously familiar scent, he decided to count his attempt as a win. They didn’t own the right types of glasses, but tall shot glasses were roughly the same size, and he ended up using them. 

His sister looked at him curiously, silently asking for a glass of her own. Grunting, he slid her one. After both had simultaneously burned their tongues once, they waited a bit before taking a more careful sip. Damian didn’t realize his eyes were closed in delight until Grayson barged in the kitchen, ruining the relaxed mood. 

“I don’t know what it is, but it smells amazing!” he exclaimed, followed by a weary-looking Drake whose eyebrows shot up when he caught the scent as well.

“Tea of my concoction, which may or may not be laced with neurotoxins just in case you would think of stealing a sip.”

Grinning at him, his older brother ignored his bluff and attempted to take hold of the kettle, only managing to burn his fingers in the process. Damian rolled his eyes but decided to pour the new arrivants a cup as well (if only smaller, he was a magnanimous man but hated waste) in order to shut them up. As expected, after a few burns of their own, the kitchen fell back in a state of comfortable silence. The clock indicated four hours and seven minutes in the morning.

“It’s delicious Dami, how did you do that?” asked Dick after a few minutes, looking more poised than usual.

“None of your business, Grayson.”

Drake’s presence irritated him. He was the kind of individual Damian would notice, in this debilitated, hormone-induced sort of trance he found himself experiencing as of lately. Clear eyes, long dark hair, delicate jaw, delicate hands. It made him want to push him out of the window once again, nevermind that they were on the ground floor. He’d never noticed Stephanie like that, despite knowing that she was the type of woman every single man tended to notice. Well, family and Jason Todd aside. 

No one seemed to affect Jason like that, as far as their few encounters had shown. Gossip was numerous and contradictory among his siblings regarding the Red Hood. Grayson pretended he only slept with people while undercover, Drake argued that he liked Hollywood blondes, Brown and Gordon tended to agree that he was asexual. Whatever that meant. The internet didn’t really help him to understand that word. Oh how he wished he could be free of his own pulsions, but could not imagine someone born without them on the other hand. 

The only sure way to know would have been to ask directly, but there were too many uncertainties. What if he discovered the origin of Damian’s troubles and spilled the information to his family? They would never understand. He barely understood it himself. Expectations, duty and feelings clashed horribly in his chest, making him want to cry some nights. He never did, but the burn was frequent. He was supposed to be an heir, and heirs by definition produced other heirs. 

“Not that I’m complaining but you’ve been awfully quiet Dami,” Dick gently prompted, his now empty glass resting too close to the edge of the table for comfort. Damian collected it without a second thought.

“I am- working on a case. Don’t need your distracting chatter, opinions or advice, so refrain from opening your mouth again,” he snapped, feeling everyone’s eyes on him.

“Okay, sorry… Tough, I have a question for you.” He seemed hesitant, toying with his spoon.

“Well, please accelerate your word flow then. Some of us need to sleep tonight.”

“Today is December 23rd,” he began, still avoiding his younger brother’s glare.

“Another evidence which no doubts contributes to retaining my undivided attention.”

“Thing is, we don’t know if you celebrate Christmas? Or- Tim, what’s the name?”

“Ashura, it should fall around the 27th this year if my calculations are correct.”

“It’s _āšūrā_ ,” Damian corrected him. “And since you’ve never seen me fasting in the past years you should have put your alleged detective skills to good use and guess that I do not hold religious beliefs, like any of you.”

The confusion on his siblings’ faces embarrassed him. Could’ve he been mistaken?

“Well, some of us do but I don’t think we know any active practitioner,” Drake wondered aloud, curling his elegant hand under his chin.

“Steph keeps changing, I think the latest was Wiccan?” replied Dick, eyes riding up to the ceiling as he searched through his memory. “Bruce has been baptised but he’s an atheist through and through. Babs’s grandparents were Jewish but I don’t think she is. Uh… Tim, you’re an atheist as well, right?”

“And you pretend to be my brother,” the other man laughed, finishing his tea and licking his lips afterward. “No, I’m Protestant. Well, mostly agnostic but that’s another debate.”

“What does that mean?” asked Cass, her eyebrows rising up not with confusion, but sincere curiosity as her hands shaped the words.

“That I’m not sure if there’s a god at all. What about you Cassie?”

“Like you,” she said, with her voice this time.

“If I had known discussing religions was the only way to have you four sitting peacefully at a table, I would have brought it up earlier,” commented Bruce, making them jump as he entered the room. 

He served himself a mug of mint tea, holding the kettle in such a perfect way that Damian wondered where he learned to do it. Not a single drop was spilled, despite the speed of his movements. It was admirable, but reminded him too much of his mother. He tried to ignore the swell of pride in his chest when his father grunted appreciatively, wrapping both hands around the mug to warm them up. Fresh stitches adorned his eyebrow, apparently it had been a rough night for everyone.

“So, back to my original question,” his oldest brother began. “Is it okay if we celebrate Christmas this time? It’s been what, five years since this house last saw a pine tree? Not religiously, as we’ve established, but as a family gathering of some sort?”

In all honesty, the eagerness in his eyes was difficult to resist. A terribly effective weapon indeed, against which Damian found himself weak. Bruce, on the other hand, had raised at least six of his bats personally, and was more or less immune to it. It still surprised them all when he gave him an agreeing nod before heading back to his room, not before having poured himself another cup.


	2. Chapter 2

Feeling fatigue finally taking its toll on his person, Damian mostly ignored his siblings enthusiastic plans until he was forcefully dragged in them.

“We should try to bring Jason home,” Grayson declared very seriously, eliminating the possibility of it being the joke it should have been.

“No,” both Damian and Tim interjected, glaring daggers at each other.

“Come on, you know as much as I do that he’s the reason why we haven’t celebrated Christmas in years! Plus if we can get him to finally get his head out of his ass” -Dick flawlessly threw a dollar in the swear jar- “and talk to Bruce, it would be the only kind of gift I can think of for him.”

“Can’t we just take a picture of us and frame it?” complained Drake.

“Can you stand next to Dami for more than 5 fives without trying to strangle him?”

“I mean, theoretically I could-”

“We just need someone to talk to Jason. For obvious reasons and because I care about staying alive, I can’t go and neither can Tim. Cassie?”

“Sorry, I don’t know him,” her hands explained, mouth pouting to express her regret.

“Keep your hands away from any weapon hidden in your pjs; Damian?”

It may have been because he was sleep-deprived, mellowed by the tea and overall warmth of the room. The official version was that he accepted only if Drake agreed not to talk to him during a whole week, especially when it came to taking over his cases. In reality it was entirely Grayson’s puppy eye’s fault.

Nevertheless, Damian found himself ambushing the Red Hood in broad daylight less than eight hours after that conversation. Too few of them having been dedicated to sleeping, in his opinion. A strange feeling agitated his gut, as if he was being played. Of course, his brothers had played him, but this was different. Tracking down Jason was as much of a challenge as can be expected from someone who’s been apprentice to Talia al Ghul. It only took him a precious second of delay to understand he’d fallen right into a trap.

Fighting with Jason was something he’d never admit liking as much as he did. He was a good match. Not perfect, like Cassandra, but good. Tricky, dirty, adaptable, strong. As he had no real intention to defeat him, the older man finally understood something was amiss and carefully retreated to a safer distance, circling him like a wild animal.

“What do you want, mini-bat?”

“-Tt- Our common relatives exploited my good nature to have me deliver you a message.”

“Tell the idiots I’m not stupid enough to think the Replacement isn’t able to hack into my communicator and listening right now. By the way, fuck you Replacement,” he growled, his voice made robotic by his helmet.

“I have no particular attention or care to give to your answer, or their ill-advised plan. Nightwing and Red Robin summon you to their Christmas celebration tomorrow night. Be there or don’t be, as previously stated it doesn’t affect me.”

“You’re not fun enough to be joking but hell, if it’s a prank you guys got me,” the Red Hood snarled, still aiming at Damian. Smart man.

“I can assure you it is not, much to my chagrin.”

“Thought you didn’t give a rat’s ass, bat-brat.”

Sitting on a condemned windowsill, Damian briefly considered his options. Curiosity killed the cat, or so they said. But he needed answers, and Jason Todd most probably had them. 

“They say you’re asexual,” he began, provocative.

“What’s it to you,” the other man growled.

“My ignorance on the subject is regrettable, but given your reaction I deduce it must be an insult of some sort.”

“Don’t you kids have internet these days, dammit,” Jason said, holstering his guns but keeping his hands close for the moment. “It’s not an insult, and it’s also none of your business.”

“If it’s not an insult, you shouldn’t feel insulted,” Damian retorted, too used to Drake’s constant rhetoric arguments for his own good.

“You really have no idea?”

The absence of malice in the question was dangerous. In all honesty, the teenager should have bolted minutes ago. Telling everyone Jason hadn’t been cooperative wouldn’t have been unexpected, and he wouldn’t have had to face possible humiliation.

“Well. Asexuality means that, in one way or another, you don’t have sex with other people. Or with yourself. For many reasons,” the Red Hood explained, seeming even more awkward than Damian felt. “Some people also don’t fall in love, that’s called aromanticism. Can you go back to the batclan now or do you have other embarrassing questions for a perfect stranger in a back alley?”

How exactly they found themselves eating ice cream in their civvies half an hour later was beyond Damian’s comprehension. Despite an awfully uncomfortable beginning, the conversation turned out to be instructive. Whatever reason had pushed Jason to take the time to address his queries was not his problem, but he still felt grateful for it. An emotion he wasn’t used to feel. The means justify the ends, he repeated himself as if it excused his situation. Neither of them had any interest in their family knowing they were, sort of and entirely against their will, bonding.

“Which of those categories best describes yourself?” he asked, scooping the caramel on his sundae to eat it first.

“I don’t like them, but I guess if I really had to, I’d say grey-ace biromantic?” Jason replied, rubbing the back of his neck anxiously. “You tell that to anyone I’ll make sure you don’t live long enough to figure out what _you_ like.”

Closing his eyes, already feeling like he was taking the bad decision, Damian mumbled that he already knew. A raised eyebrow met his declaration, but the other man -his brother, technically- didn’t ask. He still wanted to explain.

“In the likelihood of you exposing what I’m about to explain to anyone, I have taken dispositions so that your second death will be definitive,” he started, then waited another couple seconds before continuing. “...I am not attracted to women. Not like Dick is.”

“Well-”

“But I have to be,” he continued, shushing him up with a single glance. “I have a duty to produce offspring, and raise them in the tradition of my family.”

In front of him, Jason took his time crushing his own ice cream, looking down as if lost in thought. His good looks did nothing to ease Damian’s nerves, but not to the point of intense frustration and desire to punch that Drake arose in him. Todd was just appreciably handsome in the way symmetry was. 

“You’re part of those lucky bastards who have more than one of them, you know. Families.”

Damian started to reply a snide remark, the way he would have with any of his other siblings. But Todd was somehow… right. He snapped his mouth shut.

“I won’t tell you the sad story of my life, kiddo, but I didn’t choose it. No more than you did, or that Clark Kent unfortunately found out he was straight. For some people it’s set in stone, for others it’s more fluid. Bruce is hella bisexual, but he’ll never, ever do anything about it. Coward. Just don’t go hurting yourself for people who aren’t worth it,” he casually explained while eating his neapolitan ice cream. 

Damian didn’t know if he was supposed to make a joke, thank him, or ask the myriad of questions swarming in his head like a wasp’s nest. In the end, when Jason looked up to him, he was already gone. 

He may have been as good as a native speaker, English wasn’t the first language he’s been taught. The words Jason had talked him about were already mixing up in his head, meanings lost in-between each other. The importance of remembering even those not concerning his personal case was up to debate. Whatever Todd thought about acceptance and feelings did not apply to Damian, who had before all a role to fill. If not to his mother’s family, then to his father’s.

As far as he knew, he was the only one in his case. Grayson had Gordon, Drake had Brown, even Jason had Koriand’r. Though he also, apparently, had Harper. Still, it wasn’t the same. Under no circumstances could his siblings know the troubles of his heart. He would rather die alone, like his father. Damian was so intensely focused on the tight grip crushing his gut that he didn’t notice the changes in the manor immediately.

Golden garlands adorned doors and walls alike, accompanied by awkwardly cut out snowflakes. The table was dressed with silver cutlery, and a series of unlit candles finished to decorate it. A still pretty bare tree sat in the corner of the main living room, a bunch of packages resting under it. Unsure of the right etiquette to adopt, Damian silently slid back to the safety of his room. A suit was lined on his bed, as well as hair gel. Tt. Grayson’s doing, undoubtedly, as if he was unable to dress up for himself.

However, he had to admit his older brother could always be trusted when it came to fashion. Snorting at his reflexion, Damian smirked and tied up his tie. Of course, every cloth would look on on _him_. He was perfect like that.


End file.
